Release
by perfectstorm131
Summary: After horrifying incident, E/O   No characters belong to me - All belong to Dick Wolf/NBC  Extreme violence against child in opening, be warned  M rating for graphic sex


Throw dirt on me / n grow a wildflower / but it's fuck the world, get a child out her / ... / i think about more than i can forget / but i don't go around fire expecting not to sweat – Lil Wayne

It only took a second.

Serial molester had kidnapped his latest victim, a ten year-old child named Sam. Huang profiled the man as a paranoid schizophrenic and a pedophile, predictable but unsettling, and although he had a gun licensed to him he wasn't violent, necessarily, just lost in the grip of his delusions and sick impulses.

Huang was wrong, for once. Cornered and insane, the perp broke from his profile. Standoff with the gun to the child's head. Elliot bringing backup while Olivia wrestled verbally with the man to spare the child's life and set the gun down, down—

And then the perp shot Sam, point-blank, over his screams, and Olivia shot him.

She watched his bullet enter the child's head as she watched her bullet enter his.

When Elliot tore through the door a split second later, she was covered in blood. Was lifting her boot to wade through, silently, then kneel beside the child. She knew better, with some discrete part of her brain, that this was not protocol, that she could not touch the crime scene, but found herself wanting to touch the child's body for a pulse, make sure Sam was alive, to reassure herself that what she thought had occurred actually had not.

He was not alive. Elliot pulled her to her feet, and although she knew enough to lean into his proffered warmth, it took him repeatedly tugging her before she walked back to the other side of the room.

"Liv?" Elliot said, gently, in her ear. She heard this. Then the rush of noise, of people. Cragen's voice. Elliot's strong fingers on her shoulders, one hand on her back. Guiding her. Then shaking her, and somewhere she heard concern, but it floated around her. Irrationally, she wanted Fin. Fin grounded her. Elliot, in moments like this, when his concern for her was so apparent that she became concerned for him, was too much. Noise and blood. She shut her eyes, willed herself to remain present to answer the questions that were coming.

Then the EMT's, and then the questions about the shooting. Her emotionless answers, and then a visit to the hospital—which soothed her, strangely—antiseptic, white-walled, clear-voiced nurses and all—and then home. Elliot took her home in the car, holding silence with her, putting on the radio, glancing carefully over every other second. She put her head down in her gloved hands and wept without a sound, and he must have sensed her need for distance, because he did not touch her.

Snow fell. El parked. When Olivia stepped out of the car she felt her exhaustion as clearly as she felt the cold—she stood still for a second on the street, slowly slipping back to the present, noticing the city's cavernous silence, because it matched hers. Blizzard silence.

When her partner wrapped his fingers loosely around the base of her neck and guided her towards her apartment door, she found her tongue. "Stop."

Elliot pulled back to look at her in the streetlights. "Liv?"

"Elliot, I'm done."

In her head, right then, she tried not to catalogue her losses. Shook her brain dry of them.

Elliot stood still, in the gathering storm, absorbing her with his stance, cocked his head a little to the side, furrowed his brows. Her shining, dangerously dark eyes. She stared right at him, right through him.

"Okay," he said. Then: "Let me get you upstairs, ok?"

Olivia regarded him for a second longer, then reached over to brush the snow off his jacket. Then stepped closer, and closer, until only a palm's span separated their bodies, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.

He hesitated before pulling her close to him, but as soon as he did, her body went rigid and she lightly pushed him back. Too close. Turned back to the steps of her apartment building, fumbled with the keys, and took the stairs up. Elliot followed.

"Elliot, go home." Olivia did not turn to face him as she entered her apartment, turned on the floor lamp, let the light and warmth cascade over her.

"No." He shifted uneasily, but his voice was soft.

"Yes," and she spun to meet his eyes. Advanced on him, and a sense of of purpose and power washed through her. "Go home. Your family is going to be worried about you."

He wasn't afraid of her, suprisingly, although she caught the shade that passed over his eyes. He cleared his throat, staring her down. "Give me your piece, then," he said.

Something akin to fury, but sharper, even more dangerous, flooded her. She walked up to him, got right up in his face. "Fuck you," she breathed lightly. "Fuck you for not trusting me." Watched his pupils dilate, watched him try to blink away his arousal at her closeness, then the sharp distress etching lines on his forehead. "Do you think I'm going to eat my fucking gun?" she said.

No boundaries tonight. That's why she needed to get him the fuck out. And self-destruct on her own.

"Liv—"

"Here," she said abruptly, reaching behind him, brushing her body lightly against his as she reached into the drawer that held her spare. IAB had taken the one used at the crime scene. She released the clip and dropped it in his hands.

"Liv, talk to me." El's breathing had regained steadiness, and except to grasp the cool metal and tuck it away quickly he did not move, not even when her presence caused him to shiver slightly. And he was forcing it, she knew, but his voice managed to remain neutral, gentle even.

"I'm done, El," she repeated, quietly. The emotions fluctuating in her felt like a roller coaster. She could barely keep up with herself, and felt the weight of true exhaustion settle in her limbs, mingled with a fury and a sadness she'd never felt before.

El's voice, still soft, brought her back, and he hesitantly touched her arm. "Liv, what does that mean? What do you need right now?"

It struck her how scary she was acting, how thrown by her behavior he must be. And right when that thought crossed her mind, Olivia felt her heart move inside her, and remembered who this was, with her, that he was here, with her, his bright blue eyes, all the concern and love she felt from him wrapping all around her, like a warmth she wanted to permeate her skin, and so she said, clearly:

"I watched a man murder a child today. And then I took his life." And Olivia's eyes, warm now, filled with tenderness, sadness, too much—did not leave his. "El—you have to listen to me very carefully, ok?" And she put her fingers under the lapel of his coat, holding it in her hand, as if that would help him understand her.

"We come onto this earth, El. And we live. And we fucking lose everything, everything we try to gather, we lose. I watched a child get killed today and I remembered who I was. Yes, that the world is fucking terrible, that we have to see and experience these unimaginable things. That our souls have to hold them. That we are witnesses in this way. And I remembered that life has purpose. And for so long, my life has been this work, and this work has been caught up in loving you. Loving you so much I don't know the difference between us, or what kind of love it is, or if I can sustain being away from you, or sustain being close to you. But tonight—I know also that I wasn't meant to spend a lifetime waiting for you. Being here, body and soul, for you. Because you will never be ready for me. You will never be strong enough to love me this way."

As Olivia spoke, she looked up at him through her eyelashes. Elliot. And he looked back, at her, his expression unreadable, as if she was some sort of fearful goddess, as if he wanted to kiss her, as if he wanted to say something. And he started to speak, and as he did, his voice caught and he started to cry.

She stepped closer, so her lips were only a split second from his. So he couldn't run or say some stupid, false shit.

"I've earned you," she whispered fiercely. "I've fucking earned the right to you, again and again." And then her own tears started to blind her. "I've defended you and held your family together and loved you, loved you more than any human should love another.

"And I know—I know I am not alone in this."

And with that, she released her grip on his coat, and pushed him lightly, for the second time that night, away. Except. He caught her wrist with his hand, and his gaze was fire, and the familiar, unrestrained desire for him rioted inside of her.

Elliot said low in his throat, right in her ear, and shivers rolled up and down her spine, "You're right," and his gaze caught hers and pulled her in relentlessly. "You're right." He advanced even further on her, relaxed his grip on her wrist, and pulled her in to him, closely. "Liv," he whispered. "Relax, please."

Something in her gave—perhaps because she knew now, because she didn't need to fight or take or need, and she collapsed against him. Elliot he slowed their slide down together to her bare wooden floor, and her tears came for real now. Elliot pulled the entire of her weight in his lap, and although some part of her felt uncomfortable, the rest of her felt deeply relieved. She wept out her the terror, her failure to stop the bullet, her failure to save herself or the child or the perp from the damage inflicted in the split second of reflex and fear. Morning found them that way, his stiff arms wrapped protectively around her body, alternately soothing her hair and gripping her when sobs racked her so deeply she couldn't breathe. When she quieted, she could feel the pulse of Elliot's breathing, feel his scent on her skin.

Still she resisted the impulse to lean back into his embrace.

When he sensed she could stand, Elliot walked her to the shower, set the water, brushed his fingers across her cheek, gazed at her for a second, and exited without a word.

Olivia took a week off. Nobody pushed. The snow had shut down the city, and while that didn't mean crazy didn't continue running amok, it provided her some cover. From her own conscience, at least. Plus, she was too exhausted to be much good to anyone.

She slept, mostly. Ate takeout and sat at the window, watching the street. Listened to music. Tried to watch a movie but had no attention span. Missed Elliot, but did not reach to him, figuring he'd make his own decisions. And that she had peace with what she'd said, though a hollow sadness consumed her, and it was partly for his absence. She called George, who talked to her every day that week, reminding herself, indirectly, to forgive herself for what had happened that day, and to bathe and eat, directly. On the fourth day, he asked her, "Are you there alone?" And when she responded "Yes," she realized she did not feel bad about it, despite how much she missed her partner. She was just grateful for the space.

Elliot called each night, but the conversations were perfunctory, quick check-ins. She felt, when she could feel, the start of a slow fear that the end had come.

But on the fifth night, he came. She was drowsing on the couch, wrapped up in a week's worth of blankets. Let himself in with his key, set down a bag of Chinese take-out, which immediately radiated through the apartment, and said, simply, into the darkness, "Liv, I love you."

Olivia wasn't sure, but thought maybe her heart snapped. Or her mind had, and she was dreaming. But no.

Elliot walked around the edge of her couch and knelt in front of her. Spread his palms out and looked at her. His warmth, the calm clarity of his blue eyes, his familiar scent, sent a stunning ache through her. She propped herself up on one arm, facing him. Allowed him to speak without interruption.

"I talked to Kathy," he said, voice steady. "What we talked about is none of your damned business, so don't ask me because I won't tell you. It's not for you to carry." El's gaze softened perceptibly. "Liv."

She simply nodded, and something like hope fluttered deep in her body.

He cleared his throat but held her gaze, and, it seemed, his breath. "Are you coming back to work?"

The question did not surprise her, but his timing did. "Yes ... I am. Soon."

"Okay." Elliot exhaled. "Liv," he started again.

"El," she said gently, mocking his tone. Grinned at him.

But then Elliot's words, and the gentle gravity of his voice, and his bright, full eyes burning into hers, stilled her. "I'm yours. Liv," and his voice scraped low and resolute. "Do you understand me? I love you. I've loved you for so goddamn long. And this—" he gestured around him, between them. "I'm sorry. It's such a fucking mess—"

And maybe it was, and maybe it wasn't, but Olivia chose that moment to lean her head forward and run the tip of her tongue across his lips. He shut his eyes and made a small aching sound in the back of his throat and she caught her breath and paused.

Heat flared between them, indelible. Olivia locked eyes with Elliot for one long second, before stating, so simply, and so low, "Touch me—"

And he did, closing the gap between them, moving his lips—heated, now, with the light taste of her—down her neck, sliding his tongue, tasting her, tasting the heat that poured in waves off her exposed skin, and he felt himself trembling, restraining himself because he knew he would devour her if he didn't.

Olivia arched her back and made a sound as soon as his tongue found her collarbone, and, urged forward, he grazed his teeth against her neck. She slid down off the couch and into his lap, riding her hips forward over the strain of his cock in his jeans, and with this acknowledgment of her desire he felt himself get even harder, grunted low in the back of his throat, took her neck in his hand and kissed her, her lips opening savagely over his tongue, her tongue darting hotly between his teeth. And her hands were inside his shirt, raking over his back, then over his nipples, and his mouth was back on her neck, his fingers undid her buttons, tugged down her pants and thong and ran his fingers down her legs.

I want you," he said roughly, then picked her up and deposited her on the sofa, kneeled between her legs, not letting his hands leave her body, pushed her legs apart, felt the deep groan that shuddered through her body, her fingers twisting into the couch fabric, and he grabbed her waist and pulled her down so his tongue flicked her clit just once. She was wet as he was hard-he was aware of begining to come in his jeans already and rocked his tongue against her again, teasing. He realized he loved this. He loved tasting her, being inside of her, shaking as she began to grind down around him. Then she pulled back out of reach, and whispered fiercely, "Fuck me, Elliot."

Elliot untangled himself from his jeans and in one solid thrust he was inside of her. There was pain here, and excruciating pleasure, and she felt her heart start to beat again, the way it was beating before she witnessed the boy's murder.

She did not let go of Elliot's eyes as he began to gyrate inside of her, finding the rhythm that made her breath catch and eyes go heavy-lidded, even when the pleasure was so much that neither of them wanted to do anything but submit, when she reached down to flick her fingers across her clit, it sent her flying over the edge. Her whole body convulsed around him, and he put his mouth on hers to taste the orgasm everywhere-tasted it in her mouth, held her fists in his hands-and she clenched so tightly around his cock he couldn't hold it back, he shot straight into her body, racking again and again in an orgasm that he had held for her for years. And when he surfaced, when he was able to open his eyes, she was grinning like a fool and her lashes were wet with unshed tears. Finally exposed. Naked and vulnerable and thrumming.

Olivia pulled Elliot down to kiss her. Swollen mouths, bruised jaw. And he did not let her go, just picked her up. She wrapped her arms and legs around him and buried her head in his neck and he carried her into the bedroom and they slept that way, wrapped up in each other so completely that there was no prying them apart.

She dozed in and out before dawn, warmed to the bone beneath Elliot's haphazard limbs, his arm curled into her belly. Wondered what had gone down with Kathy, knowing, sudden as her bruised thighs, that she had just slept with a man who, regardless of whatever conversation happened, was still married.

And then Olivia decided to let it go.

Or put it down. He wasn't asking her to carry that burden, and she trusted him enough to give herself over to him like this, she needed to trust him enough to do what was right without her vigilance.

Maybe it was a test. Of them both. Who knew. And this—this living—was short. This much, she knew.

The thought calmed her, and for the first time in days, she slept dreamlessly.


End file.
